The King’s Mistress

“I’ll be off to Moseley about ten,” he said. “And return with Lord Wilmot and—and the other gentleman. You have the clothes?”

Jane took from a large chest the grey broadcloth suit that had been made as Sunday best for one of the servants but had never yet been worn, and a pair of shoes belonging to Richard, who had the biggest feet in the family.

“Good,” said John. “Those will do well. He can have a bath and shave in the kitchen and sleep in the servants’ quarters, and keep out of sight until we’re on the point of leaving.”

“I’ll make all ready,” Jane said, “and have food waiting when you come back.” She turned back to her packing, but John put a hand on her arm.

“Jane, it would be better if you didn’t see him until morning.”

“But I want to make him welcome and see that he’s comfortable,” Jane said. “It’s little enough to do.”

“I know,” John said. “But if you don’t meet with him tonight, then if it comes to it, you can truthfully claim you never laid eyes on him until he brought out your horse, and you knew not who he was. If we’re discovered, that could be the difference between life and death for you.”

They stood in silence for a moment, listening as the case clock in the hall below struck eight. Fear lurked in the pit of Jane’s stomach, but she looked up into John’s worried eyes and spoke calmly.

“I had rather be hanged for a sheep than a lamb. I’ll heat water for his bath and give him his supper.” She gave a wry smile. “And beg his pardon in advance for the nuisance Withy is sure to make of herself.”

“Well, that can’t be helped. But they’ll part from you before the end of the day. Between you and Henry I’m sure you can keep her off the scent for a few hours.”

IT WAS NEAR MIDNIGHT WHEN JANE HEARD THE SOFT WHINNY OF A horse in the darkness of the stable yard. John was back from Moseley. She could hardly believe that the king would really be in the house in a moment. She lifted the candle to view herself in the mirror above her dressing table. She looked anxious and white-faced, her eyes wide in the darkness of the room. She attempted a smile. Better. She wondered if she should change clothes. She had pondered what to wear. It was the king, after all, whom she would be greeting, and yet she would be meeting him in the kitchen in the middle of the night. She had settled on her favourite gown, a brocade of dusky rose, set off by the lace-trimmed sleeves of her shift. Her bosom swelled at the neckline of the bodice, and she draped a white kerchief around her neck and then tossed it away. It was the king, and she would look as pretty as she could, whatever the circumstances. She tucked a stray curl into place, and crept silently out of her room.

As Jane approached the kitchen door, she could hear men’s voices. She paused to listen, her heart beating fast. John’s voice, quiet and steady, but intense with emotion. Wilmot’s tenor whisper. And a lower voice, speaking only a few words, which could only be the voice of the king.

She took a deep breath and entered the kitchen. The men were huddled near the warmth of the fireplace, their faces eerie in the flickering firelight. She stared with shock at what appeared to be a tall scarecrow standing between John and Lord Wilmot. Beneath a greasy and shapeless grey steeple-crowned hat, bloodshot eyes shone from a face that was freakishly mottled sooty black and greenish brown and creased with sweat and dirt, dark hair hanging lank and damp on either side. A threadbare green coat, too small for the broad shoulders, stretched over a battered leather doublet and ragged breeches, and the stockings of coarse yarn were heavily darned at the knees.

The king it must be, but if Jane had not known otherwise, she would have thought him some desperate beggar or Tom O’Bedlam. The men were looking at her and she collected her wits enough to curtsy deeply.

“You are most welcome, Your—” she began, but the scarecrow hastened to her and raised her, whispering fiercely, “No formalities, I pray you, Mistress. I thank you for your hospitality, but the less said the better for all.”

Jane looked up into the shining dark eyes of the king. She was astonished to see him summon a weary smile, and she found herself smiling back, her nervousness melting away.

“Then I will say only I pray you sit, sir, while I get you some supper.”

Wilmot’s serving man settled himself on a stool by the fireplace and the others sat at the kitchen table, seeming near to collapse now that they were safe inside. Jane drew a pitcher of ale and put it before them with slipware mugs, and then dished stew from the kettle that hung on a hook to the side of the fire. She was pleased at the smile on the king’s face when she set a steaming dish before him, and when she came back a minute later with bread, cheese, and butter, he had already eaten most of the stew.

“Forgive my animal nature, Mistress,” he said, meeting her eyes. “It’s little I’ve had to eat in the last days, and this meal is the best that I can recall in my life, it seems.”

Jane blushed, and took up his empty dish. “Then I beg you let me give you more, sir.”

The king consumed the second plate of stew hungrily while John and Wilmot and Wilmot’s man ate at a slower pace. Jane lit some more candles, and as the light fell on the king’s feet, she was shocked to see that his shoes had been slit around the sides, and that his protruding toes were bandaged and dark with dried blood. What a terrible ordeal he had already passed through in the last few days, she thought, and what unknown dangers lay ahead of him.

“My brother has fresh clothes for you, sir,” she said, setting another loaf of bread upon the table. “And water for a bath is hot and ready.”

“The happiest words I’ve had in a week.” He smiled, and she was pleased that so simple a thing probably was the most welcome gift she could give him at that moment.

“Then I will bid you good night,” she murmured, with a half curtsy.

“And I will see you on the morrow, a changed man.”

Jane turned to go, but the king took her hand and spoke again. “I thank you, Mistress Lane, most humbly, for your kindness and your bravery.”

Jane felt herself lost in his eyes, and was conscious of the other men watching her.

“Not at all, sir,” she murmured. “I’m happy to do whatever I can in your service.”

The king raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, and she felt as though a bolt of lightning had shot through her. She tried to speak but no sound would come, and she could only nod and smile as she fled into the darkness of the hall.

IN BED, JANE LAY LOOKING AT THE STAR-FLECKED NIGHT SKY OUTSIDE her window. She touched the back of her hand, where the king had kissed her. She seemed to feel the imprint of his lips on her skin and shivered. She was excited, but a thrill of terror was roiling her belly. Only a few days ago she had been longing for adventure, but what lay ahead of her was no story out of a book, but a real journey fraught with danger. The plan that had seemed thrilling now felt like madness. The king was a big man, not easily disguised. What hope was there that they could make their way undetected along a hundred miles of roads teeming with enemy troopers, and pass among countless common people for whom a thousand-pound reward would mean a life of security?

Guide us and protect us, Lord, Jane prayed. Make clear our path and cloud the vision of our foes. Preserve the king, that he may live to protect our beloved England. And help me to have the courage to see the journey through, whatever may come.

CHAPTER FOUR

IT WAS STILL DARK WHEN JOHN KNOCKED ON JANE’S DOOR THE next morning. Her stomach felt shaky with nerves as she washed and dressed, and she tried to shut out Withy’s chatter as she breakfasted. Henry seemed in good spirits, which helped to calm her. He would know what to do if trouble came, and of course the king was a capable soldier. All she really had to do was sit behind the king on a horse, she thought. And keep her head about her.

As the first streaks of pink dawn shot through the grey clouds, John came into the dining room, pulling his coat on.

“It’s time you were off,” he said. “Jane, your horse stands ready.”

When Jane emerged from the house a few minutes later, Withy and her husband and Henry were already mounted, and John and her parents stood waiting to bid them farewell. Jane stared. The young man who held the bridle of her grey mare was unrecognisable from the ragged fugitive of the night before. A bath, a change of clothes, and further cutting of his hair had transformed the king. He was strikingly handsome, his face shaved clean and the mottled brown scrubbed away. His dark hair was now evenly trimmed so that it just brushed his jaw and was combed neatly back. If she had not known the truth, she would have regarded him warily as a Roundhead.

The new suit of clothes in grey wool Jane had provided fit his tall frame admirably. His snapping dark eyes met hers as he pulled off his hat and bowed to her, the very picture of a deferential retainer.

“Good morrow, Mistress. William Jackson, your humble servant.”

“Thank you,” Jane replied, probably too curtly, in an effort to conceal her discomfiture.

The king swung himself into the saddle and offered her his arm—his right arm, the wrong one to enable her to mount easily, and there was a moment of awkwardness as she tried to hoist herself into position. John saw the difficulty and managed a laugh as he came forward to help her.

“The other arm, fellow. You must not be awake yet.”

The king ducked his head in apology and offered his left arm.

“I’m sorry, Mistress,” he said easily. “You’re right, sir, I must still be half dreaming.”

Jane heard her mother give a snort behind her and mutter, “Blockhead.”

John helped Jane settle herself on the pillion behind the king, her feet perched on the little planchette that dangled against the horse’s belly. The king sat astride, facing forward and away from her, but she could not help that her side brushed against his back, and she was intensely aware of his presence. He smelled like soap and wool, and she wondered how long it had been before the previous night that he had bathed or put on clean clothes.

At Jane’s side, John spoke quietly.

“Lord Wilmot and I will follow shortly. We’ll catch up to you and keep within sight of you as long as we may before we branch off towards Packington.”

He gave an almost imperceptible nod to the king, and went to stand beside his wife.

“Travel safely, sister. And Henry.”

Henry touched his hand to his hat in salute, and spurred his strawberry roan gelding into a walk, the dappled mare bearing Withy and her husband following.

“Have a care!” Jane’s mother called as Jane’s grey mare fell in behind the other horses. “Go with God!”

And the journey had begun.

THE SKY WAS PEARLY GREY, AND A LIGHT BLANKET OF MIST LAY OVER the fields that stretched away on either side of the road. The calls of sparrows and wrens echoed in the crisp morning air and a breeze stirred the drifts of brown and golden leaves. The horses’ hooves sounded dully on the muddy road, but Jane was grateful that no rain clouds threatened overhead, and it appeared they would have a fine day for their travels.

Henry spurred his horse to a faster walk, and Withy’s husband, John Petre, followed his lead. As the horses quickened their pace, Jane realised that she had never ridden pillion behind anyone but her father or one of her brothers. She was grasping the little padded handhold of the pillion, but to be really securely seated, she needed to hold on to the king in front of her. What to do? Surely she could not simply slip her arms around the royal person, uninvited? The king seemed to sense her quandary, and turned his head over his shoulder to speak low into Jane’s ear.

“Hold tight to me, Mistress Lane.”

The sudden pressure of his back against her shoulder, the warmth of his breath, and the low rumble of his voice sent a tremor through Jane.

“Yes, Your—yes, I will, thank you.”

She reached around shim with both arms and held fast. Her lower body was facing sideways, but of necessity her right breast was pressed against the king. Dear God, she had never been so close to a man before, she thought, and this sudden physical intimacy jolted her into a new awareness of her own body. Her heart was fluttering in her throat and she swallowed hard, wondering if the king was similarly taking note of the sensation of having her close against him.

The road was mercifully free of many travellers at this early hour, and they passed through Darlaston, Pleck, and Quinton without running into neighbours.

As the sun cleared the horizon, the misty light of dawn gave way to a glorious day. The sky arching overhead was a cloudless blue, and it seemed to Jane that the leaves of the trees, radiant in their autumn golds and reds, stood out more clearly than she had ever noticed before. On either side of the road, the stubble fields and red earth rolled away in gentle waves, broken by the lines of dark stone walls.

“The day could not have been finer had we ordered it,” Jane said to herself.

“Mistress?” The king tilted his head towards her inquiringly.

“Oh! I only remarked how splendid the day.”

“It is indeed. My heart soars with hope, I find.”

He glanced ahead to see if they were overheard, but the thud of the horses’ hooves on the clay of the road covered the sound of their voices. A conversation with the king. Jane’s heart soared, too, and she began to sing softly.

“The east is bright with morning light

And darkness it is fled,

And the merry horn wakes up the morn

To leave his idle bed.”

The king laughed with pleasure. “I’ve not heard that since I was a boy.” He joined in for the chorus, his deep baritone a counterpoint to Jane’s treble.

“The hunt is up, the hunt is up

And it is well nigh day,

And Harry the King is gone hunting

To bring his deer to bay.”

The cheerful mood was catching, and the others sang along as Jane and the king continued with the next verses.

“Behold the skies with golden dyes

Are glowing all around;

The grass is green and so are the treen

All laughing at the sound.”

The cool autumn breeze whispered by them, redolent of hay, livestock, and the deep earthy smell of the fields.

When they had been travelling for only an hour, Henry pointed to two figures off in the distance. John and Lord Wilmot, with hawks on their wrists and John’s hounds tumbling and barking around them as they rode through the open fields.

“Excellent,” the king murmured. “Two good men within sight, should we need them.”

THE PARTY HAD BEEN SOME FOUR HOURS TRAVELLING, AND JOHN and Lord Wilmot had only just disappeared from view, when Jane’s horse cast a shoe.

“What a nuisance,” Withy huffed. “Did not this mooncalf Jackson examine the shoes before we left?”

She glared at the king and he dropped his head to avoid her eyes.

“Bromsgrove lies not far ahead,” Henry said swiftly. “A smith can soon put us to rights, and we’ll not lose much time.”

He glanced at the king, and Jane knew they shared her apprehension about stopping and being seen, but there was no hope of riding as far as Long Marston without the horse being reshod.

As they rode into the little village, they came to an inn posted with the sign of a black cross, and the sound of a blacksmith’s hammer rang out from a small smithy behind it.

“We’ll take the ladies inside for some refreshment, Jackson,” Henry said, helping Jane dismount. He handed the king some coins. “Wet your whistle while you wait for the smith, and fetch me when he’s done.”

“Aye, sir,” the king said.

Withy and John Petre were already entering the inn, but Jane hesitated. Would the king know what to do? Had he even been in a smithy before? He gave her a smile and nodded infinitesimally as he led the grey mare towards the stable yard.

Jane turned to follow the others inside, but her eye was caught by a broadsheet nailed to a post before the inn, its heavy black letters proclaiming “A Reward of a Thousand Pounds Is Offered for the Capture of Charles Stuart”. Glancing around to see if she was observed, Jane edged closer and read with a sinking heart.

“For better discovery of him take notice of him to be a tall man above two yards high, his hair a deep brown, near to black, and has been, as we hear, cut off since the destruction of his army at Worcester, so that it is not very long. Expect him in disguise, and do not let any pass without a due and particular search, and look particularly to the by-creeks and places of embarkation in or belonging to your port.”

Jane moved quickly away from the signpost, desperately wondering what to do. Surely the smith, the grooms and ostlers, all the people of the inn and the town had seen the proclamation, and it must be the same in every village through which they would pass. How could they hope to arrive at Abbots Leigh without the king being discovered?

She had to warn the king, she decided. She walked around to the back of the inn, where the sounds of the blacksmith’s hammer had rung out. The privy was likely to be back there as well, she reasoned, and she could use that as her excuse for skulking in the stable yard should anyone wonder.

As she rounded the corner of the inn, she saw that she was already too late. The smith was examining the grey mare’s shoeless hoof, and the king leaned nonchalantly against a post, watching with apparent interest. He glanced up and smiled when he saw her, seeming completely at ease.

Jane could not think what to do, and needed to relieve herself anyway, so she ducked into the little house of office. No ideas had occurred to her when she emerged a couple of minutes later. A bucket of water and a pannikin of soap stood near the outhouse, and she used the excuse of washing her hands to assure herself that nothing disastrous had happened yet.

So far, all appeared to be well. The king was holding the horse’s hoof while the smith fitted a shoe to it. Shoeing the horse should only take another minute or two. If the smith would only keep his eyes on his work, perhaps they would escape without discovery.

Her heart stopped as the king spoke.

“What news, friend?” Jane was astonished at how naturally he had taken on the accent of a Staffordshire country fellow.

“None that I know of,” the blacksmith answered, reaching for a handful of nails. “Save the good news of the beating of those rogues, the Scots.”

Jane gulped in fear, but the king just nodded.

“Are there none of the English taken that joined with the Scots in the battle?”

“Oh, aye, to be sure,” the smith answered, tapping a nail into place. “But not the one they sought most, that rogue Charles Stuart!”

Jane dropped the soap into the bucket, and the king and the smith glanced her way. She dared not meet the king’s eyes, and busied herself with retrieving the soap.

“You have the right of it, brother,” the king said. “And if that rogue is taken, he deserves to be hanged more than all the rest for bringing in the Scots.”

“You speak like an honest man,” the smith grinned. He squinted at his handiwork, and nodded to the king to let go the horse’s foot. “Well, friend, yon shoe should hold you to wherever you’re bound.”

WHEN THEY WERE SAFELY ON THEIR WAY, JANE WHISPERED URGENTLY to the king about the posted proclamation.

“I would have liked to take to that villainous smith with his own hammer,” she fumed.

“I take his words as no indictment of me,” he shrugged. “The people are weary of war, and want only to go about their lives.”

He began whistling “Jog on the Footpath Way”. Jane wanted to say more, to tell him she was quite sure that most of his subjects passionately shared her desire to have him back on the throne, but mindful of Withy and John Petre, she said nothing. They would be branching off towards their home in Buckinghamshire at Stratford-upon-Avon, which they should reach by midday, and then the journey would be less strained.

The ride continued uneventful for another hour or more, when an old woman working in the field by the side of the road called out, “Don’t you see that troop of cavalry ahead, Master?” She seemed to be addressing the king, rather than Henry or John Petre, and Jane looked at her in alarm. Could she have recognised him? The old woman only nodded slowly, an inscrutable smile on her toothless mouth, and, eyes still on the king, tilted her head at the road before them.

Jane’s eyes followed where the old woman indicated, and to her dismay she saw that about half a mile ahead, a troop of fifty or more men and horses were gathered on both sides of the road. Henry and Withy’s husband slowed their horses and came side by side.

“We must go another way,” John Petre said to Henry.

“They’ve seen us already,” Henry objected. “To turn off now will bring suspicion upon us. I think it safer to continue as though we’ve nothing to fear. And we must cross the river here.”

He started forward, but John Petre grabbed his arm and shook his head obstinately.

“You weren’t beaten by Oliver’s men like I was a while back, for no reason but that they suspected me to be a Royalist. I don’t relish more of the same, and I’ll not take Withy into danger.”

Jane could sense the king’s tension. He leaned back and spoke into her ear.

“Lascelles is right. If we turn back now, it will bring them down upon us. We must go forward.” He clucked to the horse and they pulled abreast of Henry.

“Surely we must ride on,” Jane said to Henry urgently.

Withy turned over her shoulder, shaking her head. “You ride where you’ve a mind to, Jane, but we’ll take a different way.”

“But they see us,” Jane pleaded. “Look.”

They were within a quarter of a mile of the troops now. Men sat or sprawled in the shade of trees, their horses munching at feed bags, and faces were turned towards the approaching riders.

John Petre reined to a halt. “The road we crossed not half a mile back will bring us into Stratford by another way. We’ll take that.”

He doubled back the way they had come.

Henry shook his head in frustration but turned his horse, and there was nothing for it but for the king and Jane to follow. Jane fretted inwardly, but she and Henry had no convincing argument for their urgency, and the king could say nothing.

The road was narrow and led into a wood, but John Petre seemed to know where he was going, and when no sound of pursuing hooves followed them, Jane began to relax again. In half an hour the track curved to the right, passed through a tiny hamlet, and the village of Stratford-upon-Avon lay before them. Soon they would be across the river and free of Withy and John Petre.

“Hell and death,” the king muttered as they rounded a bend.

Jane glanced ahead and felt her stomach drop. The narrow road through the village was thick with horses—the same troop of cavalry they had turned off the road to avoid. Jane’s instinct was to flee, but the soldiers had spotted them, and now there was truly no way but forward without giving the appearance of flight. Henry and the king exchanged the minutest glance and nod, and Henry held back the roan gelding and fell into place behind the grey mare.

The troops were just ahead now, and Jane noted with horror that the broadsheet with the woodcut of the king and announcing the reward for his capture fluttered from a post at the side of the road. Her arms tightened around the king’s waist.

The troopers were turning to look at the approaching party. One officer leaned towards another and they exchanged words, their eyes on the king. Henry took his reins in one hand and the other dropped towards his pistol.